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Smug Russian Prick 🙄
ROSE. I cannot. I actually cannot. I am going to throw myself off the roof of the library.
He is doing it again. That thing. That thing where he just…breathes? Like he owns the oxygen in the room? He’s sitting there with that smug, bored expression on his face and I can tell he’s thinking about how much better his GPA is than mine.
And the way he looks at me! It’s like he’s dissecting me in a lab. I can’t even focus on my notes because I’m too busy wondering why he has to be so ridiculously arrogant about everything.
Also, he’s wearing that one black shirt. You know the one. The one that makes his shoulders look like they were sculpted by a Renaissance master just to spite me? It’s an attack, Rose. It is a targeted psychological attack on my sanity.
I hate him. I hate his stupid perfect hair. hate that I spent ten minutes today wondering if he’d actually look good if I pushed him against the wall and told him to shut up.
I’M LOSING MY MIND. PLEASE TELL ME TO MOVE OUT. PLEASE TELL ME HE’S ACTUALLY A SECRET WEIRDOS WHO COLLECTS STAMP ALBUMS OR SOMETHING SO I CAN STOP FINDING HIM ATTRACTIVE FOR FIVE SECONDS.
Shane realizes he is in the chat with Ilya. He sees the "Delivered" checkmark.
Smug Russian Prick 🙄
Oh my god.
Delete.
I meant to send that to Rose.
IGNORE EVERYTHING.
I was joking.
It was a social experiment.
Ilya?
Please tell me you’re asleep.
ILYA.
If you say a word I will burn your textbooks.
15 minutes pass
Smug Russian Prick 🙄
Fine. Whatever. I’m just going to move to another country. I’ll start a new life as a goat farmer in the Alps. Goodbye.
For record, I do not collect stamps. But I find it very interesting that you spend free time imagine me pinned against wall.
I HATE YOU.
You also hate my "sculpted" shoulders. This is very poetic way to say you have stare at them for hour.
I HAVE NOT.
You are in bathroom, yes?
....Yes
Come out of bathroom, Shane. I wear black shirt.
Go to hell.
I prefer you come here and tell me how you hate my breathing. I am listening ;)
I am NOT coming out. I am living in this bathroom now. I will establish new colony. I will eat the soap.
Bold move. Very minimalist.
I hate you so much. I actually, genuinely, with every fiber of my being, despise you. Why are you like this? Why can't you just be a normal human being who is embarrassed that their roommate thinks they're a "Renaissance master"?
Because is compliment, Shane. And because image of you panic over my shoulders is most entertainment I have since mid-terms.
I was NOT spiraling. I was analyzing. It was an academic exercise in frustration.
Is that how we call it now? "Academic frustration"? I must add this to my notes.
By way, you mention push me against wall. Was there specific wall you had in mind? Or you just generalise?
STOP. STOP TEXTING ME.
I can hear you type. You type very fast. You are agitated. Your heart is probably race. It is adorable.
I am NOT adorable. I am a menace. I am your worst nightmare.
My nightmare is world where you do not spend afternoon obsess over my GPA and my shirts. That sound very boring.
ou are the most arrogant, cocky, insufferable man on this entire campus.
And yet, here you are. Still in bathroom. Still texting me. Still think about shirt.
I'm only texting you so you know that I haven't forgiven you for being a smug prick.
Noted. Now, since you already confess attraction to me in many frantic paragraphs (which I have screenshot for future) I think is fair we settle this "academic frustration" in person.
Absolutely not.
I stand right outside door, Shane. I can smell your expensive soap. And I can tell you hold breath.
I am not.
Photo Attachment: A selfie of Ilya leaning against the bathroom door, wearing the black shirt, one eyebrow arched, looking devastatingly smug.
Come out and tell me to shut up. I dare you.
Shane unlocks the door and swings it open with enough force to rattle the frame.
"I still hate you!" Shane snaps, though his voice is an octave higher than usual.
Ilya doesn't move an inch. He just looks down at Shane with that calm, heavy-lidded gaze and a tiny, dangerous smile. "I know," Ilya purrs, his accent thick and deliberate. "It is your most endearing quality."
Shane collided with Ilya. He grabbed the front of that cursed black shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists, and shoved Ilya backward. It wasn't a graceful move, but it worked. Ilya’s back hit the hallway wall with a satisfying thud, the air leaving his lungs in a short, sharp huff that only made Shane more aggressive.
"You think you're so clever," Shane hissed, his face inches from Ilya's. "You think you can just...sit there and be perfect and then mock me for noticing it?"
Ilya didn't fight him. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, his expression one of pure, smug contentment. His eyes darkened, tracking the frantic movement of Shane’s lips.
"I think," Ilya murmured, his Russian accent thickening, making the words sound like a caress, "that you have spent too much time typing, Shane. And not enough time doing."
That was the breaking point. Shane groaned, a sound of pure frustration, and crashed his lips against Ilya’s. It tasted like desperation and resentment and a hunger that had been starving for months. Shane bit at Ilya’s lower lip, trying to draw blood, trying to force some kind of reaction out of the man who always seemed so composed.
Ilya finally moved. His large hands shot out, gripping Shane’s waist with a strength that made Shane gasp. He hoisted him up, Shane’s legs instinctively wrapping around Ilya’s hips to keep from falling and turned them so Shane was pushed against the wall now.
"Is this the 'push against wall' from your message?" Ilya whispered against his skin, his voice vibrating through Shane’s chest as he moved his kisses down to the sensitive column of Shane's neck. "You are very aggressive. I like this."
"Shut up," Shane whimpered, his head falling back against the wall. "Just...shut the hell up."
"Make me," Ilya challenged.
Ilya’s hand slid down, gripping Shane’s backside and squeezing hard, pulling him flush against a hardness that left no room for misunderstanding. Shane let out a strangled sound, his fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulders, those sculpted shoulders he’d spent so long obsessing over. Up close, they felt even more solid, more real.
With a sudden, fluid motion, Ilya carried him into his bedroom, tossing him onto the mattress. Shane bounced slightly, looking up at Ilya as the Russian slowly began to peel off the black shirt. He did it deliberately, eyes locked on Shane’s, savoring the way Shane’s pupils dilated, the way his breath hitched.
"You like the shirt," Ilya noted, tossing the fabric carelessly to the floor. "But I think you like this more."
He climbed over Shane, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand. The weight of him was oppressive in the best way possible, grounding Shane’s frantic energy. Ilya leaned down, his chest brushing against Shane’s.
"Tell me again how much you hate me, Shane. Tell me while I make you forget your own name."
Shane tried to snap back a sarcastic retort, but it came out as a broken moan when Ilya’s hand slid down to the waistband of his jeans. The "hate" was still there, but it had morphed into something else.
His touch was firm grips and searing kisses that left marks. When Ilya finally entered him, it was like a claim. Shane arched his back, a loud, uncontrolled cry escaping him, his fingers clawing at Ilya’s skin.
"Look at me," Ilya commanded, his voice rough and stripped of its usual calm.
Shane opened his eyes, finding Ilya staring down at him with an intensity that felt like it was peeling back every layer of his soul. There was no more teasing, no more witty banter. There was only the rhythmic, punishing slide of their bodies and the sound of their shared, ragged breathing.
As they hit the peak together, Shane clung to him, sobbing into Ilya's shoulder, his entire body shaking with the force of his release. Ilya held him tight, his grip almost bruising, burying his face in the crook of Shane's neck.
They lay tangled in the sheets, sweating and exhausted. The silence was heavy, but for once, it wasn't tense.
Shane shifted slightly, glancing at Ilya. "I still think your GPA is inflated," he whispered.
Ilya let out a low, rumbling chuckle and pulled him closer, kissing his forehead. "And I think you are still very adorable when you are lying."